


Penchant

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ficlet, Handcuffs, M/M, Pon Farr, Pre-Reform Vulcan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-25 05:08:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12028788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Stonn’s brought the rebel half-breed.





	Penchant

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He’s training in the yard when the attendant comes to fetch him, and then he pauses first to towel himself down and change into better robes—a prince has certain appearances to uphold, and Stonn’s known in particular for his presentation. He smoothes down his silken hair, blacker than any night, and draws a golden sash about his waist, the traditional dagger hidden within its folds. By the time he’s sweeping into the audience chamber, he looks as polished as if he’d just come from court, not pinning his own guards into the dirt beneath the blazing sun. The long hall is lit with blaring rays, streaming down between the columns, and they all pool together in the center of the polished floor, where a single man stands within the spotlight.

Stonn’s footsteps don’t falter, but he can feel the corners of his lips curling up at the sight. The man is bared for him, shirtless, dressed only in haggard trousers and an array of cuts and bruises. There’s been no attempt to heal him—Vulcan warriors need no such treatment, and neither do prisoners that have already outlived their merit. By all accounts, this man should be dead, but he survived on Stonn’s word alone—Stonn made it clear that if this particular soldier was captured within his borders that Stonn wanted him _alive._

He’s alive alright. His eyes burn with a hungry fire that Stonn hasn’t felt in decades. The man is breathing hard, ragged, his simple bowl-cut disheveled and green blood flushed in his cheeks and chest—his lean shoulders are squared, washboard stomach held taut, the jagged jut of his hip-bones peaking high above his trousers. He’s a pretty thing to look at, just as Stonn knew he’d be. 

Stonn strolls right within an arm’s length, and the man’s fists, held close in thick handcuffs, ball tighter. Without breaking eye contact, Stonn asks the guards that flank his prisoner, “Is this him?”

One of the guards opens his mouth, but before a single word’s gotten out, the prisoner’s announced, “I am Spock.” His voice is deep, clear, and entirely too self-assured for a man in his position. Stonn still enjoys the sound of it.

Stonn enjoys _all_ of the spectacle before him. His eyes make a show of trailing Spock’s lean body, all the little oddities and details that come from mixing tribes—something that hasn’t been done in centuries. This is the first true _hybrid_ of their age: a half-breed, for all intents and purposes. At least, that’s how the guards see him: a _mutt_ with no family loyalty, a throwaway of no repute. What Stonn sees is _exotic_ , and he finds he likes that knowledge: this creature is truly beautiful, truly one of a kind. 

But he’s a traitor, too, born half of a well-established tribe and half of the rebel cell, the band of miscreant renegades that threaten all of Vulcan’s integrity. They preach _peace_ through ‘logic,’ calling on disarmament and the toppling of great families. If Spock had his way, Stonn would be no prince at all. 

Stonn steps closer, noting the way Spock’s entire body seems to tense, prone and _ready_. When Stonn was younger, that would’ve fueled him to response—he would’ve leapt to shove Spock back, to fight and dominate any fool who dared to question their long-standing traditions. But they’re not little boys anymore.

He darts one hand out to grip Spock’s chin, tilting it up, to examine the way the light hits different angles of Spock’s eyes. Stonn can read things in them and the subtle ripple of connection that slithers through the contact. Spock’s skin is burning hot. Spock sneers in his grip, and Stonn dons a languid grin.

“So this is why you have resorted to violence,” Stonn muses, failing to note how that change was what first enticed him— _violence_ is the tool all the great families use. “Surak’s followers have stuck to their petty crimes until this, but the great Surak’s grandson himself breaks that tradition...” Spock’s mouth twitches, and Stonn finishes, half-chuckling, “because he is nearing his _pon farr._ ”

Spock snarls, and the guards lurch to life—the one on his left kicks him in the back of the knees, and he crumbles, growling, even though Stonn knows he has more fight than that. Maybe he truly _does_ have some mastery of his emotions, to let himself be made to kneel. Most in his position would lunge at Stonn with outstretched hands—the handcuffs wouldn’t prevent strangulation. The guards and Stonn’s own skills would. But Spock stays where he’s put, neck craning back up to meet Stonn’s hungry gaze. 

With a shuddering breath, Spock coldly seethes, “Perhaps. I am not so foolish as to pretend that my thoughts are not now compromised. But my motivations remain the same, as do all those who dream of a better Vulcan.” Stonn lifts a brow but lets Spock keep talking. Even suffering the shocks of his upcoming ailment, Spock speaks well. Spock swallows, then grits out, “Killing me will not change that. More realize every day how poorly the tyrant ruling sects serve us. They must fall; logic demands it.”

One of the guards kicks his back, and Spock grunts, though not before Stonn’s leveled a searing glare at that guard—he steps back, chastised. Stonn bends to catch Spock’s face again, and he draws Spock up by it—Spock totters to his feet, looking, if possible, even more feral than when Stonn first entered the hall.

Stonn tells him, “I would not expect the grandson of Surak to say anything less. ...But your logic is disappearing swiftly.”

Spock winces as though that fact’s more painful than the blows of the guards. Looking bitterly aside, he hisses, “So kill me now, before my madness gives me the strength to drag half your house down with me.”

Anyone else would’ve killed him already.

Stonn’s grin only grows. He murmurs, “I have no intention of killing you.”

Spock’s head snaps around. He looks at Stonn with such _intensity_ , furious but puzzled. No one in their right mind would keep a prisoner in _pon farr_ —better luck inviting a wild _le matya_ into your home. Stonn has no intention of throwing Spock in any dungeon. 

He takes a single step closer, his heavy boot nudging right between Spock’s bare feet, and he tilts to brush his lips along Spock’s, drawing a restrained gasp of shock from both his guards.

Spock’s eyes flicker to him, blazing from hate to _desire_ in a single heartbeat. As Stonn leans back enough to speak, he quietly admits, “I have always thought you strangely handsome, half-breed. When I was younger, I even resented you for it... but I have matured now, and I hold no fear for those who think different, who are different. Now I see you as a special treat... one I wish to be _mine_.”

Spock’s chest heaves as he looks at Stonn. He somehow manages to size Stonn up without ever breaking their eye contact, his gaze seeming to bore into Stonn’s very skull—judging him, weighing him—Stonn knows Spock _wants_ him. A young Vulcan in _pon farr_ can rarely resist the call of a potential mate, even those as disciplined as Spock seems to be. For many, that wouldn’t apply to another Vulcan of their same configuration: one they can’t bear young with. But Stonn gambled and won: he knew Spock would be different in that too, that Spock would want him anyway. 

Stonn asks, “Well? Will you make a new alliance with me, as your father did? At least until your _pon farr_ is over, and then I swear to allow you the chance to rethink your position, once you indeed can _think_ again.”

Spock _stares_.

Then Spock lunges forward, tossing his arms up to hook the handcuffs behind Stonn’s neck, and the next thing Stonn knows, he’s being slammed into Spock’s mouth, Spock’s long fingers in his hair. Spock holds him fiercely in place, their lips smashed together, Spock’s tongue pressing out to pry Stonn’s open. Stonn allows it so he can revel in the way Spock’s slick tongue swipes along his teeth. Spock kisses just as Stonn knew he would: full of _passion_. There’s no logic in their kiss. 

When Stonn’s finally had enough, when he knows any more will have him ravishing this gorgeous creature right in the center of his hall, Stonn wrenches back, ducking out of Spock’s hold. His lips stay swollen, wet, scraped and bitten. Stonn can smell the arousal thick about Spock’s body, and he can still sense the shadow of unadulterated _lust_ that seeped in through their contact. Stonn knew Spock had that in him. 

Stonn waves the bewildered guards away. Then he hooks a finger in Spock’s waistband, and he tugs Spock off towards his chambers, where two young conquers might re-map their world for the future.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [(Fanart) Penchant](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16688350) by [Mylochka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mylochka/pseuds/Mylochka)




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